


Just the Moment You Start to Fall

by OscarTheSlouch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Fix-It, Florists, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mind Palace, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OscarTheSlouch/pseuds/OscarTheSlouch
Summary: S3 fix-it.  Mary has been assassinated, and it's up to Mycroft to break the news.  John is devastated, but Sherlock's initial reaction? Delete, delete, delete.  Unfortunately (fortunately?), Mary's memory won't go down without a fight.  Get ready for adventures in the mind-palace!





	1. Chapter 1

November.  A Saturday.  2:16 a.m.

 

Mycroft was glad to be at the Diogenes, glad to be in his favorite chair, glad to be cradling the heavy crystal rocks glass, still half full of smoky bourbon.  Trivial as they seemed, these creature comforts gave  _ actual _ comfort, for which he currently had sore need.  He glanced at his phone again, grimaced, and drained the glass in one clean swallow.  Even at this late hour, a server materialized silently beside his chair.  Mycroft smiled wryly but gratefully, offering his empty glass with a nod.   _ Another of the same _ .  The glass came back almost instantly.  He took a slow sip, swirling the whiskey in his mouth contemplatively.  He looked at the phone, thumbed once more through the pictures, and sighed.  He would have to make the call in the Stranger’s Room.  At least it would be empty at this late hour.  At least he could take his whiskey with him.

 

November. A Saturday. 2:30 a.m.

Sherlock was bent close over the microscope, as if sheer proximity to the sample might cause it to give up its secret, to show him the stain.  There was nothing.  He turned the nosepiece back to the scanning power, moved the slide to a new view.  Nothing.  And nothing on low power, nothing on high power. Nothing, nothing, nothing.  He needed a new sample, a new slide preparation--his spine straightened with a snap, and he blinked hard against the bright motes left behind from the light source.  He had been at it for hours, and he could feel the sharp point of frustration beginning to press at the back of his mind.  John had helped him earlier in the evening, drinking beer in his pajamas and prepping slides at the kitchen table, but he had ultimately wandered away to “rest his eyes a bit” and had never returned.  Asleep on the sofa no doubt and probably drooling on the cushions.  He tended to drool when he went to bed overtired.

There had been a lot of drooling since Mary.  John never talked about her, about the lies or about the truth either, but he had started taking on so many extra shifts at the clinic that he was rarely home, stumbling in tired only after very long days, of no use to anyone.  Too tired to follow a complex investigation, too tired to aim and fire a weapon, too tired to play bloody Cluedo . . . Sherlock finally had to intervene, sweeping into the office one afternoon with homicide photos and a handgun.  It had been a slow day with few patients, Sherlock knew, and John could supply no compelling reason to stay.  Sherlock had been careful to keep John occupied since, with this case and that research, anything that kept him busy and, thus busy, cheerful.  Or, if not actually cheerful, not woeful either.  Busy was surely better than woeful.

Sherlock sighed and plucked up a bit of tissue with his forceps, added a drop of stain and a coverslip.  He was still sure he would find bacteria in the samples, but it was proving difficult and time-consuming.  _ Wait--needs to be warmer _ .  _  Higher temperatures; faster bacterial propagation _ .   _ The more bacteria, the more bacteria to see. _ _ 100 degrees should just do it.  _ He had just begun stacking petri dishes in the mini oven (the bacteria was only  _ moderately _ toxic) when his phone began buzzing in the pocket of his dressing gown.

 

**********

“Nice of you to ring, Mycroft.  Terribly busy.  Can’t talk now.  Send it in a text.”  Mycroft sighed heavily as Sherlock hung up with a beep.  Only his little brother would fail to recognize that a phone call at 2:30 in the morning was like to be important.  He sipped his drink and hit redial.  It rang for a long time.

“Sherlock--”

“Nice of you to ring, Mycroft. As I said before, terribly busy--”

“Sherlock--”

“Can’t talk now--”

“Don’t hang up.  It’s about Mary--”  

“Wait,” Sherlock cut him off short, “wait.” There was a long silence.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.  I’m listening.”

“She’s dead, Sherlock.”  There was another, deeper silence, a cessation of breath at the end of the line, “Sherlock?”

“How?”  The question was even, expressionless.

“She was out on a contract.”

“Private or government?”  The question was accusing, the last word  _ government  _ rang with an unpleasant note.

“Government. But  _ not _ , “ Mycroft added with emphasis “ours.  She was hired by the Ukraine and working under an American passport.  Evidently, she was to relieve a Russian SVR operative of a package while he was on a trip to Washington, D.C.”

“The American passport,” Sherlock cut in, “the location, her history.  If it went badly, it would look like the CIA.”

“Exactly.”

“And it went . . .” there was pause, a faint gulping sound in the distance.  Mycroft closed his eyes.

“It went badly,” Mycroft finished, “yes.  He left the package in his hotel room when he went to dinner but thought better of it and came back and surprised her.  They both drew weapons, but he got the drop,” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.  There was a beat of silence.

“Is that all you can tell or all you will tell?” Sherlock asked finally.  The accusing tone was back, sharp and dangerous.  For all that, it was better than the gulping.

“Technically, I shouldn’t have told you  _ anything _ .  And you’d never have known because they’ll hush it all up.”

Sherlock laughed nastily, “Will they?  Shots fired in a hotel by a SVR agent in the U.S. capitol?  A dead body? Something will leak.   _ Someone _ will leak--”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed, “You’ll see it in the papers.  But you’d never have known it was about Mary.  No one will ever know it was about Mary.  It’s only luck that  _ I _ know it was about Mary.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of our people in D.C. sent me the police photos from the scene, but she’s a ghost, Sherlock, no real records of any kind and, given her past contract work for the CIA, the U.S. is ready to expend considerable resources to keep it that way.  The Ukranians deny everything, of course.   _ I’ve _ denied everything.”  Mycroft frowned into the phone and took another drink.  “There’s something else I have to tell you.  Sherlock, I can’t bring back her body.  The government,” he took another swallow, “can’t claim her as a British national.  A U.K. citizen with a forged U.S. passport working for the Ukrainians against the Russians?” He chuckled humorlessly, “it’s a diplomatic nightmare.”  Again, Mycroft waited for a long time, “Sherlock,” he asked, “you do understand?”

“Yes.  I--” there was another gulp, a pause, a recomposure, “What will happen to her?”

“International limbo.  The U.S. will keep her body indefinitely as evidence.”

“I see.  And I’m to tell John?”

“I thought so.  Though I can, if you think that’s better.”

“No.”  Sherlock hung up.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reacts to the news.

John jerked awake on the sofa, pulling his chin from a small puddle of drool.  He wiped the saliva absently off the leather with the sleeve of his dressing gown and blinked into the darkness of the living room.  He could hear the phone buzzing, Sherlock’s irritated voice, “Nice of you to ring, Mycroft.  Terribly busy.  Can’t talk now.  Send it in a text.”  John frowned; at this hour of the morning, a call from Mycroft was bound to be important.   _ Jesus, what if something’s happened to Sherlock’s mother? _  He stood wearily, stretched with a groan, and moved to the kitchen.   _ He _ would call Mycroft back, if he had to.  He had made it to the kitchen door when the ringing resumed.

Sherlock, at the kitchen counter, was jamming petri dishes into the mini oven to incubate.  The phone vibrated furiously on a dirty chopping board, ignored.

“For God’s sake answer it, Sherlock.  At this hour, it’s probably important.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes and slammed shut the mini oven with unnecessary force.  “Also,” John nodded at the petri-crammed oven as he  moved for the kettle, “I do make your cheese on toast in that, you realize?  Tea or coffee?” John asked.  Sherlock shot John a nasty look as he picked up the phone, but mouthed  _ coffee _ nonetheless.

“Nice of you to ring, Mycroft.  As I said before, terribly busy.  Can’t talk now--”   _ He’s going to hang up again, _ thought John,  _ and then I’ll be the one to talk to Mycroft at _ \--he glanced at the stove clock-- _ lovely! 2:30! Christ. _  He pulled the coffee pot from its home in the Coffeemate and began filling it at the sink.  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sherlock was, miraculously, still on the phone, staring at him intently across the kitchen.

“Wait,” he said suddenly into the receiver, “wait.”  He laid the phone down gently on the kitchen table and crossed to John.

“What--” John started, his brow furrowing, but Sherlock just shook his head and took the coffee pot out of his hand, set it in the sink, turned off the tap.   _ There’s something wrong _ ; the thought flashed through John’s mind but made no appreciable connection. It was Mary, of course.  It had to be Mary.  He knew it deep in his soldier’s gut, knew with certainty.  And yet . . . John felt nothing, not worry or panic, only an odd floating sensation throughout his whole body,  _ the same sensation you have,  _ he recognized, _ just the moment you start to fall _ .  Sherlock’s arm came around his shoulders, and John was pushed gently into a kitchen chair.  Sherlock took the chair beside him, one eyebrow raised in a question, inclining his head towards the phone on the table.

“Yes,” John heard himself say.  Sherlock nodded and, holding John’s gaze, pressed the speaker button.

“Go on, Mycroft. I’m listening.”

 

**********

 

Sherlock hung up.  John stared at the experimental litter on the kitchen table, expression empty.  Sherlock, in turn, stared at John.  John’s lower lip was bright red; he had been chewing it nearly the whole time, and now he was rubbing his mouth with his hand.  Occasionally, he made a small gulping sound, as if trying to swallow a pill stuck halfway down.  His eyes were glossy, wet.  Absurdly, Sherlock was reminded of the sheen of streetlight on wet pavement, but this was no time for poetics, and he shook it away.  He needed the phone.  There were tickets to buy, cars to arrange.  Flights to Washington were already pulled up on his mobile even before he had expended any conscious effort; he hoped John had a current passport, but then Mycroft could surely arrange something.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” His eyes never left the screen, “John, I need a credit card.”  He thrust out his hand, navigating his browser windows with one dextrous thumb.

“Sherlock.  What,” John cleared his throat, “what are you doing?”

“Booking flights.  There’s a flight from Heathrow at 5:45.  If we leave--”

“A flight to where?”  Sherlock stopped typing abruptly.  John knew the destination; it was clear from his tone--even, incurious.  Sherlock recognized it from before; it was a tone reserved for questions John already knew the answer to, yet not rhetorical . . . questions that John could answer himself but that he wanted Sherlock to answer nonetheless.  In Sherlock’s experience, these were dangerous.  Usually, John asked them when he was disappointed in the answer he knew Sherlock was going to give.   _ Aren’t you the least bit concerned about those kidnapped children?  No; will your concern help me find them? _

And yet . . . he dropped the phone into the silk pocket of his dressing gown and regarded John squarely.  He looked haggard, with two-day stubble and bags under his eyes.  His mouth was still red, his eyes still slick with unshed tears.  Surely those would be falling soon.  John leant forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, head cocked slightly to the right.  He looked expectant, but not as if he were anticipating being angry or dissatisfied.  In fact, he looked--Sherlock scanned his face once more to be sure--mildly amused.  His lips twisted ever-so-slightly upwards, the sad smile growing as he reached out his hand, gripping Sherlock’s fingers with his own. He squeezed gently, a pressure that communicated--what?  

“Washington.  Naturally.”  It felt like a trap.

“Not a case, Sherlock.” John’s tone was soft but firm, his gaze totally direct.   

“Not a case?”  John had his hand in both of his now, one beneath his palm and one on the top.  The one on top was rubbing across his knuckles soothingly. 

“It’s a death in the family.  A death in the family is not a case.”

“But--”

“If Mycroft has a fatal heart attack, we will not launch an investigation.  We will plan a funeral.”

“That’s absurd,” Sherlock scoffed and began ticking off ways the myriad ways to induce cardiac arrest: “Calcium gluconate, potassium chloride, hydrochloric acid, air embolism--”

“Yes, but--”

“Thoracic microwave exposure,” he was on a role, “ventricular fibrillation, and last but not least, the gardener’s favorite: oleander.  To say nothing of Mycroft’s modest role in the British government.  I’d say there’d be room for an inquest, don’t you?”

“You know what?” John’s top hand lifted and came back down with a soft clap on Sherlock’s, “Bad example.  When Harry finally dies of cirrhosis.  If Mrs. Hudson, God forbid, falls down stairs those slick back stairs and breaks her neck--”

“You’re describing deaths from natural causes.  Those aren’t comparable.” But John was smiling now.  And crying.  The tears were welling up and over his bottom lids.  He made no attempt to stop them.  Sherlock’s brows knit together; there was something he’d missed, a loose connection.

“And what,” John asked lightly, “would you say is a natural cause of death for an assassin?”  John dropped Sherlock’s hand suddenly, wiping at the growing pool of clear mucus on his upper lip with the sleeve of his dressing gown.  He stared blankly for a moment at the wet spot on the striped fabric, hiccupped once, and broke apart.

 

**********

 

John felt the sobs coursing through his body, the sticky heat of tears on his face.  He could hear himself choking; there was such a press of sobs in his throat struggling to escape at once he couldn’t draw breath.  It was terribly, terribly visceral, all-encompassing, and yet John felt as if he weren’t there at all.  The floating, falling, out-of-body feeling was back.   _ Shock _ . Distantly, he felt Sherlock moving behind him, standing behind his chair.  Sherlock’s dressing gown fluttered down across his shoulders.  The silk was warm, and the collar smelled like sandalwood soap and coffee and chemicals.   _ I’m in shock.  Look, I’ve got a blanket.   _ There was a horrible noise, a gasping, hysterical, choking laugh.  He realized, dimly, that he had made it. Reaching backward, he blindly grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s t-shirt and pulled hard. Sherlock’s bare feet appeared on the kitchen tile before him: long, pale, and blurred through the tears.  John grabbed a second fistful of shirt and buried his sopping face in Sherlock’s stomach, crying as if his heart would break, or rather, as if it had already broken.

“John.” Long hands dropped onto his shoulders.  Sherlock breathed in, sucking in loudly and slowly through his nostrils.  John could feel the downward pull of diaphragm and abdominal muscles beneath his forehead and then the stillness of a held breath.  Sherlock breathed out, slowly and audibly through the mouth.  A long hand moved slowly to the back of John’s head, rubbing smoothly back and forth across the nape of his neck.  “John.  You’re hyperventilating.  On three.  One, two . . .”  And again, he felt the slow pull of muscles beneath his cheek, heard the intake of breath.

John gritted his teeth, sucking in air with a shaking hiss.  Sherlock’s stomach rose as the muscles smoothly pushed the air back out.  John’s own breath came out in a rattling wheeze.  “Good.  Again.  One, two . . .”  The world narrowed to nothing but the small, shadowed space between John’s forehead and the warm wall of Sherlock’s stomach.

**********

 

Sherlock rested has hands on the back of John’s head, breathing methodically, listening to John’s breathing fall haltingly into rhythm with his own.  It was good--John’s proximity to his body, the steady buildup of carbon dioxide between his shirt and John’s nose and mouth.  It was almost as good as breathing into a paper bag.  At just 1000 ppm, carbon dioxide could cause drowsiness, muscle relaxation . . . Sherlock closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest.  He counted up to five, breathing in, counted down to zero, breathing out.  Intermittently, he could feel a few tears squeeze out from beneath his own lids, dripping hot down his cheeks.   _ Interesting _ , he thought absently, as a another tear crawled down his face,  _ they always come on the exhale _ .  Occasionally, the drops found the corners of his mouth, and he could taste the sodium chloride.   _ But Lot’s wife looked back from behind him, and, lo, she became a pillar of salt.  A death in the family indeed. _

It was a long time before John’s head moved beneath his hands, his chin tipping upwards, scraping up Sherlock’s stomach.  Sherlock opened his eyes.  John’s own eyes were an angry red, the surrounding skin pink and puffed, the bulb of his nose bright as a christmas ball.  

“Tea?”  Sherlock asked, “I’ll make it.”

John sniffed, “Yeah,” wiping yet another run of mucus on his damp sleeve, “Yeah. Please.”

 

3:38 am

 

Sherlock ran water in the kettle and took down the tin of loose-leaf, the teapot, a pair of beakers.  John propped his elbow on the table, his cheek resting against his fist, watching.  

It was odd, Sherlock making tea.  Then again, it was odd that Mary was dead.  The thought floated around vaguely.  He waited for the reaction, the clench of his stomach or an unimaginable sorrow.  He felt nothing.  The baby was dead, too.  Still nothing.  He shook his head.   _ Shock _ .   _ Good thing I’ve got a blanket _ .  He clutched the collar of Sherlock’s gown closed under his chin, rubbing the red silk between his fingers.

 Sherlock turned the knob up on the stove and then moved to the fridge for the milk.  He looked, John thought absently, oddly naked without his dressing gown, his arms bare and pale in the bluish light of the refrigerator as he rummaged through the shelves, pushing past jars of ears and eyes and who knew what else before turning up the carton.  The kettle began to whistle.

Sherlock plunked the beakers down on the kitchen table, pulling his own chair up to the table with a scrape.  

“Ta,” John said, wrapping his fingers around the beaker.  Sherlock inclined his head.  He looked uncharacteristically dreadful, the red rims around his eyes and nostrils livid against his white skin and the spreading haze of blue-black stubble.  “You’ve been crying,” John said wonderingly.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed, sipping his tea, “Death in the family.”  John rested his hand on Sherlock’s forearm as the tears again swept through him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is trying to delete Mary's memory--without success.

 

5:16 am

 

Rain had begun to fall in sheets, the wind blowing hard enough to rattle the the windows in their frames.  Ideal weather for a funeral.  Sherlock checked the mantle clock by the orange glow from the streetlamps and let his head tip back against the Corbusier’s battered leather.  John had cried himself into an uneasy sleep in his chair an hour before, still cocooned in the red dressing gown.  Currently, he was drooling on the Union Jack.

Sherlock ran a hand over his cheeks and chin, feeling the itchy friction of stubble beneath his fingers.  He wanted a shave and the blue dressing gown and perhaps a pair of socks.  And yet--he looked over at John--and yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave, couldn’t risk John waking alone in a cold, quiet house.  Not yet.  He tucked his icy feet up under his thighs and  crossed his arms against the chill.  John’s bad leg had already begun to twitch in his sleep, the muscles shivering spasmodically beneath the skin.  He’d need the cane then, perhaps a muscle relaxant in the evening.  

Sherlock’s hand crawled beneath the edge of his shirt, the pads of his fingers dipping into the round, puckered crater of his scar.  It still ached at times.  In fact, it ached now.  He would, he decided as his eyes fluttered shut, play Barber at the graveside.  _  If that suits you. _

“Anything suits me,” Mary shrugged.  He was relieved by Mary’s appearance; he had dreaded it all evening, wary of how she might appear now in the halls of his memory.  He feared to meet her there, tragic and angry, cadaverous and yet swelling pregnant--But there she was, perfectly normal, in her red car coat and pink scarf, her cheeks bright as if she had just swept in from the cold.  Her gloved hand snagged his elbow.  “But, Sherlock, I do need to speak with you,”  Mary said, marching him to one side of the foyer.   “Why does that dear, sweet, little  _ thing _ ,” she thrust her chin towards a figure in an opposite corner of the room, “keep trying to take me to the wine cellar?”

“The mind palace doesn’t have a wine cellar.”

“Well, then, I wish you’d tell her that.”  Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the “little thing” in question.  She was dressed all in black, her clothes subtlely expensive.  Pretty, with dark, curling hair.  And while her attention seemed entirely focused on her BlackBerry, her eyes did, on occasion, flick towards them, only to flick away again almost instantaneously.  Sherlock frowned.  “Sherlock, who  _ is _ that?”

 “That’s--nevermind.  The wine cellar?” This last was directed to the girl in the corner.  She smiled at him and shrugged, “I thought it sounded better than dungeon.”  Her eyes flicked back down.  Sherlock scowled.

“Dungeon?  Sherlock, what’s she talking about?”  For just a moment, Mary’s red coat flickered out of focus, and she stood instead in her wedding gown.  Her look of confused reproach behind her veil was exquisitely painful, like a stiletto drawn slowly across the palm, and then . . and then there she was again in her red coat and scarf, bound up against an unknown chill, as sane and human looking as she had ever been.

 “Sherlock, I don’t understand.”

“It’s where he sends the ones he wants to delete,” Anthea supplied helpfully, not even glancing up from the glow of her tiny screen.

“You  _ wanker _ !  You absolute  _ wanker _ !”  Mary’s small, compact fist met his shoulder hard.   “Honestly!  I’ve only been in the ground five minutes--wait!  I’m not even in the bloody ground!  How could you?”  The red coat flickered out again, and Mary stood suddenly tall in her wedding gown, a white pillar in the foyer--an avenging angel, though the majestic effect was somewhat mitigated when she began clouting him about the head with her bouquet.  “Christ!” she screamed frustratedly, casting the mess of broken stems and ribbons to the ground.  White petals drifted belatedly to the floor around them.  By the time they settled on the marble, the petals had been recast as snowflakes, and Mary stood once again in her red coat, cheeks flushed, with a crust of frost across her hair and shoulders. 

“You bloody daft--,” she cut off, thrusting her gloved fists angrily into her pockets, “did you really hate me so much?  Because I bloody well loved  _ you _ .  Don’t you understand?  I--” she laughed, ruefully, “--I  _ loved _ you.  My god, don’t you know that when I married John I was marrying you, too?  I mean, you were so clearly a package deal.”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped.  “Yes!  Don’t you think I am exquisitely aware that the number of people in this world who actually like me, who can stand to be around me for more than five minutes at a time, is infinitesimally small?” 

“It’s eight, actually,” Anthea added, “well, seven now.  As Mrs. Watson is--” she took on white finger from her BlackBerry screen and drew it nonchalantly across her own neck.

“Then  _ why _ , Sherlock?” Mary asked gently., “I know that grief hurts, but over time, it's the good memories that--”

“It isn’t grief.”

“Then what--”

“ _ I don’t know! _ ” he burst frustratedly, “Don’t you understand that?!”  His hands wrung into claws in the air, as if he could wrench the answer from the ether, “I don’t know!”

“I do,” said Anthea.

“Oh, really? Then by all means,” Mary put her hands on her hips, her lips pressed in a tight smile, “ _ enlighten _ us.”

“So sorry--can’t,” Anthea replied, matching Mary’s tight-lipped smile with her own.

“Why not?” Sherlock crossed the foyer towards her, his brow furrowed.

“You won’t let me.”

“What do you mean?”  Looming over her, Sherlock let a touch of menace enter his tone.

Anthea sighed, nonplussed, “Just what I said: You.  Won’t.  Let.  Me.  As the--” she searched for the term, “ _ liaison  _ between your conscious and subconscious minds, I am responsible for your psychological protection.  I shield you from any and all information your conscious mind deems unsuitable for recall.  This is, regrettably, one of those things.” She didn't sound terribly regretful.

“How do we get past you?” Mary appeared beside him.  Her hand, Sherlock noticed, was clenched around something in her flowered handbag.

“You don’t,” said Anthea, narrowing her eyes.

“You sure?” Mary replied.  

The gun was in Mary’s hand in an instant.  There was one dull thud when the barrel met Anthea’s temple and then another when she hit the marble floor.  Mary stepped over her nonchalantly, stuffing the pistol back in her bag.

“Well,” Mary said brightly, “I say we try this little door here in the corner.  What do you think?  Oooh,” she screwed up her nose as she turned the knob, “bit dank.  Bit dark,” and when she pulled the chain to the bare bulb above the doorway, “and a bit cobwebby.  You first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued, folks! Up next: adventuring in the "wine cellar."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is the architect of his conscious mind. His unconscious mind is . . . harder to control.

The stairs behind the little door wound downward interminably.  At step number 175, Sherlock became aware of a growing heat and pressure in his chest. _Anxiety? Claustrophobia?_  It took until step number 379 to recognize the feeling as extreme annoyance.  Sherlock had to hunch his shoulders to fit and even then he could feel his curls scrape the ceiling, collecting cobwebs with each step.  Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself that the stairwell _did not exist_ in any physical reality; his hair was clean (or at least spider-free) across the temporal plane.  Somehow, this concept did not prove a comfort.

It was simply outrageous; there was no other word for it.  It was outrageous that his own mind should willfully deny him information, that he hadn’t even noticed the door in the corner before Mary opened it, that he should have to stoop to walk through his own mind-palace--He wouldn’t do it, refused to, and stood with a jerk.   _Roof height:  increase 2.7 feet_. _Lighting: increase 250%.  Stair width: increase--_ his head hit the ceiling with a crack.  “Arrrrh!” he cried, more affronted than hurt.

“Oh!  You all right?” Mary reached a concerned arm for his back.  “It’s so low in here--”

“I shouldn’t _have_ to stoop!” A fuse snapped somewhere in his mind.  “It’s my fucking mind palace!  It should have--” he cut off, gesticulating wildly at the dim, tight space .  “I have the picture right here,” he thrust his fingers into his hair, “right here in my mind, but it won’t--it won’t--”

“It won’t--?” Mary began.

“This fucking stairwell won’t do as it’s bloody well told!”  Sherlock kicked the wall hard, loosing a fall of plaster from the crumbling ceiling.  And now there was fucking plaster dust in his fucking eyes in addition to the fucking spiders in his fucking hair and--

He was, he realized in the ensuing silence, panting, the feeling in his chest hot enough to scald.  He closed his eyes deliberately, desperate to push the heat away.   _Stop it. Concentrate._

“Sherlock?”  Mary’s voice was gentle, tentative.  He could only acknowledge her with a hiss through his nose.  “I can see that you’re frustrated.”

_Understatement._

“But you know, don’t you, that it is hard to--to rewrite your subconscious.”  And when he didn’t reply,  “I mean, how many years has John been going to therapy?  And he still has the limp--”

Sherlock snorted, “Really?” He rounded on her. “You’re going to compare my mind, my strictly calibrated and precisely constructed mind, with John’s? A man who can’t even remember if he’s bought milk half the time?  It’s like comparing a Ferrari with an rc car.”

“You do know John’s a doctor and a combat veteran?”

“So?”

“So?” Mary barked a laugh, “so I think his brain’s a bit better than you give it credit for!  I mean, he’s not drooling in the asylum just yet--”

“No, not in the asylum, but--”

The insult was in his mouth already; he could taste it, bitter and sharp, and he narrowed his eyes at Mary, ready to stick her with it.  He could already see what would happen after, her face gone hard and then falling, the back of her red coat as she turned on her heel to trudge back up the stairs.  Or maybe she would simply click her heels together and disappear.  Either way, she would leave him.   _Oh God, don’t. Stop._ Sherlock wished he could stop; he _wanted_ to stop.  But he’d say it anyway because he always did, always thrust home the mortal blow.  He could hear Molly’s anguished voice in his ear: _You always say such horrible things.  Every time. Always._  

Inevitably, he opened his mouth, the acid dripping from his tongue.  Then--

The dim lights were scrubbed out, the stairwell shaken apart by a great rumble of thunder.  He was back in the sitting room, the rain blowing against the windows.  John shifted, rolling his head fretfully against the arm of the chair, his mouth working soundlessly in sleep.  There was a wet spot spreading slowly across the throw pillow trapped between John’s chin and shoulder.  And as the thunder died away . . .

“No, not in the asylum, but definitely drooling,” Sherlock said ruefully as the narrow stairwell rebuilt itself around him, the dust settling back into his hair.  It didn’t matter.

“You ready?” Mary asked after a moment.

“Yes,” and he was mildly surprised to find that he was. “Yes, let’s go.”

 

**********

The stairs ended, improbably, in an alleyway lined with fairy lights.  An EDM beat pounded down the corridor’s graffitied walls, vibrating through Sherlock’s teeth.    

“Sherlock,” Mary bellowed, “I never heard of a dungeon with fairy lights.”

“I never heard of a wine cellar with a sound-system.”  

“You know,” Mary shouted as the crept along through the deafening pulse, “I’ve never been much of a dancer.  You think it’s too late to learn?”

“In your case? Yes.”  They had reached a dogleg and popped their heads around it.

“That doesn’t look like a dungeon to me, Sherlock.  Or a wine cellar.”

“No,” he agreed,  “No, it doesn’t.”

“Lord, I hope we don’t have to have a wristband.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty makes an inevitable appearance. John wakes to news of a funeral.

“Hiiiii!” It was the longest and loudest  _ hi  _ on record, stretched to two syllables by the lilting sing-song delivery and piercingly audible over the throb of dance music.  Sherlock felt his blood run instantly to ice water.  Even his brain was subsumed in the chill.   _ No _ .

“Not possible,” Sherlock muttered, too low for anyone to hear, particularly over the music, but the dapper little figure at the end of the corridor heard anyway.

“And yet, here I am!  And looking very well, if I do say so myself,” the small form straightened his impeccable necktie with a smile. “My last look--the sweat, the straightjacket--I decided it just wasn’t really  _ me _ ,” he ran a hand over his sleek dark hair with satisfaction.  “ _ So _ . . .  what do you think?  You’ll find I’ve made a few improvements.  For example--” he flourished a manicured hand towards the neon sign above the door behind him: “ _ Jim’s,”  _ the sign proclaimed in massive green script.  “Oh, Sherlock!” he clasped his hands. “I’m just so happy to see you!  It’s been donkey’s years!”

“Sherlock,” Mary was beside him, hissing in his ear, “ is that--?”

“And you’ve brought a friend! But, oh no--” Moriarty’s foxlike face fell into an expression of concern as he snapped his fingers. From the shadowed doorway behind him, a massive grey hand thrust forward a clipboard.  Jim accepted the proffered sheath of papers and flipped through them, tsk-tsking.  “No, I’m sorry,” he said finally, jutting out his lip in a mockery of disappointment, “she’s not on the list.”

“Not on the--” Mary spluttered.  

“No.  But,” and Moriarty’s face twisted in a delighted grin, “Sherlock is.”  He held the clipboard up  for their inspection, flipping rapidly through the pages: Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock . . . his name continued for column upon column, page upon page, written again and again in endless variation:  in tiny block letters, in elaborate cursives, in deranged scrawls . . . 

“ As you can see, it’s a  _ very _ exclusive club,” Moriarty intoned solemnly, “and while any friend of Sherlock’s is a friend of mine, well--.” He adopted a stage whisper, “the bouncer’s a bit of a trick.  I believe you know each other.” Again, he snapped towards the dark doorway and club beyond.  More than a clipboard appeared this time; Mary gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

To his dismay, Oscar Dzundza, aka “The Golem,” had grown in Sherlock’s recollection; he was topping nine feet now with hands the size of frying pans.  His skin had also assumed an even greyer cast, practically post-mortem in its ashen hue.  For a fleeting moment, Sherlock could see himself hanging with his arms about the Golem’s neck, no more burdensome than a pendant hanging from a woman’s throat.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Mary tensing, her hand once again buried in her handbag as her face hardened into an expression of gritty resolve.   _ Don’t _ \--he grasped her wrist to stop the pull of her weapon, but the spreading glee on Moriarty’s face indicated the damage was already done.  

“Oh my, you don’t have a gun in that flowered bag of yours?  Personally, I think it’s a bit dowdy.  Do you like guns?  Me, I just love them; I’m something of an enthusiast.  Oh, boys!”   Sherlock blew a frustrated huff from his nose; he knew what happened next.  Sure enough, the fairy lights were suddenly joined by a swarm of dancing red pinpricks, the lights of at least a dozen laser sights.

“You know, Sherlock,” Moriarty took a step towards him, speaking confidentially now, “I’m a little disturbed by the number of professionals running round down here.”

“Hazards of the trade,” Sherlock said drily.

“Do you have bad dreams?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“If I were you,” Moriarty glanced around at the rooftops, at the Golem, “I wouldn’t either.  So . . .” he spread his hands, “what are we going to do here, Sherlock?  Is she going to shoot me?  Speaking from experience, it’s not the  _ best _ time . . . Or am I going to shoot--”

“Don’t be boring,” Sherlock cut him off brusquely, “what’s the third option?  You know I don’t do either or.”  

Moriarty’s grin took on an abnormal proportion, stretching his face laterally like the Chesire Cat’s, “The third option,” he practically purred, “is for you to come with me.  But,” he glanced at Mary, hand still locked around the gun in her bag, “Dinah stays here, Alice.  My rabbit hole is just for you.”

 

8:30 am

“John, wake up.  Time to get dressed.”  John groaned; his eyelids felt swollen shut.  “There’s tea and Hobnobs.  Just there on the side table.”  Sherlock’s hand shook insistently at his shoulder, and John--John knew he couldn’t do it. if he opened his eyes, then he was starting a new day, and the new day would not have Mary in it.  There would be no more impossibly-possible tomorrows in which the Watsons let bygones be bygones, in which they held hands in the park as they pushed a pram, in which they bought groceries and cleaned house and watched telly . . .   

“Here,” Sherlock released his shoulder, instead prying away John’s hand from the armrest.  John could hear the rattle of pills in a plastic bottle as Sherlock shook three paracetamols into his palm.  The pills, small as they were, were weighted with reality.  It was tomorrow whether he would or no , and John opened his eyes reluctantly.  The world appeared impossibly unchanged, the sitting room more or less exactly as it had been before his sleep . . .

The same could not be said for Sherlock.  For just a moment, John’s breath caught as he tried to sync his last image of Sherlock (sweat pants, barefeet, ashen face) with the present one.    Sherlock was . . . immaculate.  Beyond immaculate, really, if such a state existed.  Freshly shaved and showered, Sherlock stood in a dark Savile Row suit, shoes polished to a mirror- sheen.  His white shirt was so crisp, it looked like the collar could cut someone and  _ My god!  Is that a necktie? _

“Fuck,” John muttered, tossing the paracetamol to the back of his throat.

“Beg pardon?” Sherlock lifted one eyebrow as he pulled on his coat and scarf.

“Just--nevermind.”  Sherlock’s own sartorial splendor had suddenly made dressing feel Herculean.  Shit, just the thought made him want to bloody-well cry.  He _ would  _ cry more, he supposed, and the thought exhausted him.  He looked Sherlock up and down again tiredly then, frowning, “What’s that for?” He jerked his chin at the aluminum cane hooked in Sherlock’s elbow.

“Nothing,” Sherlock leaned the cane against the chair, within easy reach.

“And where are you going?”

“Florist,” he replied, pulling on gloves, “Funeral’s at eleven.  Molly’s coming. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.  Should I call Harry?”

“No.”

“Stamford?  Anyone else?”  John shook his head.  Sherlock nodded, buttoning his coat.

“Shall I send Mrs. Hudson up to sit with you?”

“No. Sherlock--” John shook his head to clear it.  Things felt as if they were humming along just slightly ahead of him, just out of his reach.  “Sorry--funeral?”

“At eleven.  Chiswick New Cemetery.  There’ll be a car round at ten.  Have some tea.  Get dressed,” Sherlock snagged the violin case by the door.  He stood for a moment on the threshold.  John was struck by his face and posture-- still yet anxious, like a stag that knows its been spotted, trying to decide whether to stay or to run.  

“John,” he said finally, “I--” he cut off, then clearly swallowed whatever he was going to say next, settling instead on a lame, “I’ll see you at eleven.”  The stag had decided to run.  The door closed behind Sherlock with a soft click. the footsteps of his resplendent shoes receding quickly as he descended the stairs.  John listened to the open and close of the front door and then let out the breath he wasn’t aware of holding.  He felt suddenly deflated.

The apartment was unbelievably quiet, the only sound the soft plash of rain on the windows.    _ I hope _ , thought John, bracing his hands firmly on either arm of the chair,  _ Mycroft didn’t divert all traffic from Baker Street on my account.   _ The chair creaked mightily as he pushed himself upright.  For a moment, he surveyed his upright form stretching to the floor beneath him with a certain satisfaction.    _ Fuck you, Sherlock, you and your ruddy cane _ .  The next moment, he surveyed the approaching floor as his leg crumpled unceremoniously beneath him.  His hands did not come up in time to save his face or his dignity.  

It was only the opening salvo of what promised to be a very long day indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits the florist and reflects on his revelations in the Mind Palace.

8:35 a.m.

Sherlock forced himself to walk down the hall and to take the steps one at a time.   _Even John can hear the difference between walking and running,_ he told himself, but his measured progress remained a test of will.  When he finally closed the front door, he took a long, cold breath of London air.  

 Back in the flat, he had almost said something incredibly stupid.  He had, in fact, only just managed to stop himself in time. It threw him; he was not a man that said stupid things. _Only that’s not strictly true_ \--he reflected, as he marched into the chill drizzle.  He said stupid things all the time, cruel things that he wanted back almost immediately on utterance.  What he did not say were things he had coldly and deliberately determined to keep secret.  He did not make sudden confessions.   _Perhaps it’s due to lack of sleep_ \--but he knew it wasn’t.  He should never have gone with Moriarty.   _Never_.

As he reached the end of Baker Street, the rain started to pick up again, and he hailed a cab. “Take me to a florist near Chiswick New Cemetery,” he directed promptly, slumping into the back seat as the cab left the curb.  The cabbie was blessedly silent as they drove down the rain-swept streets, listening to some bland BBC morning news hour.  Sherlock, for his part, rested his violin on the seat beside him, steepled his fingers,stared at some fixed point on the back of the passenger seat, and brooded.

 

***************************  


He had left Mary in the alley with only a single apologetic glance over the shoulder.  He did not tell her he would come back for her.  He suspected he wouldn’t.  Over his shoulder, he could see her shocked expression, illuminated and then dark, over and over, in the garish, flashing neon.

The club was dim and crowded with the eerie forms of the half-remembered.  There were people with great smudges where their faces ought to be, or with faces missing mouths or noses.  Once, in the corner of his eye, he saw a disembodied dress, frumpily patterned in big blue hydrangeas, representing all he could still recall about his despised third form maths teacher.  And accompanying the half-deleted figures was a cacophony of sound, EDM overlaid with half-remembered voices speaking a startling array almost-recognizable languages.  As he trailed through the crowd behind Moriarty, he thought he could make out his name, over and over, in the mumbled conversations. 

Moriarty laid a hand on his arm, pulling him down to shout in his ear, “Drink, Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock shouted back, but found himself pulled towards the bar nonetheless.  

“Two vodka martinis,” Moriarty bellowed at the faceless (but for an eyebrow ring) barkeep. “And make them nice and dirty,” he winked at Sherlock, and it sent a cold jolt down his spine.  

Coming here was stupid and dangerous, he just wasn’t sure quite how.  But Sherlock could feel the danger like a heat just beneath the skin, and his nerves felt taut, as if they might snap.  But it was absurd--what could happen here?  Truly?  When Moriarty presented him with an oversized martini glass, he took it with something akin to gratitude.  He took out the skewered olive and drained the glass in one long, oily gulp.

Moriarty laughed,”You lush! Want another?” He extended his own glass, and Sherlock took it, draining it down.  He set the empties back on the bar with a clink.  And it was better with the alcohol; it gave him a degree of remove.  The noise of the room seemed softer, the patrons further away.  He didn’t even flinch when Moriarty took his arm, steering him through the throng. They came to a door at the back of the club, and Moriarty drew out a single key, fitting it into the deadbolt.

The door opened onto a dark room.  Moriarty smiled, beckoning with one finger as he disappeared into the darkness.  Sherlock followed, another cold shock running down his back.  The door swung shut behind him.  The darkness was absolute, as was the sudden silence.  He had entered . . . _what_ ?   _Some kind of mental void?_

“No, Sherlock,” Moriarty corrected, as if he had spoken, “it’s an oubliette.  A place of forgetting, and I think you’ll be _very_ interested to see just what you have been forgetting.”  His voice was at a distance, across the room, and there were other sounds now, too: a plastic clatter, clicks, followed by the unmistakable whir of a VHS playing.  One more click and the room was illuminated by the fluctuating glow of television static.  Moriarty settled himself on a tired old sofa in front of a rather small tube television, making a show of ensconcing himself amongst the cushions.  “Well, come on then, Sherlock,” he spread his arms along the back of the sofa.  “The show’s about to start.”

Seeing no alternative, Sherlock sat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  The static cleared abruptly, replaced by clear video and audio.  He could see himself running hand-in-hand with John.  His greatcoat flapped behind them as they tore down a dark street.  He could hear them breathing heavily, hear the faint rattle of the handcuffs between them.  

“I remember that night,” Sherlock said, puzzled, eyes still fixed to the screen.

“Of course,” Moriarty assented, “but not like this.  This, Sherlock, is the director’s cut.  Now, watch carefully,” he cooed.

On the screen, Sherlock and John rounded a corner, pressing themselves against a wall.  And suddenly, Sherlock could feel the brick under his back, the strain of his lungs, the beat of his heart, and a great, aching joy.  His heart felt like it might break out of his chest with the sheer magnitude of his pleasure.  The danger, of course, was glorious, but so was the electric feeling of John’s hand in his, and if they should flee together forever into the night, there were many worse fates.

There was a jump cut.  Sherlock lay prone on a lumpy mattress in some east European shithole, face buried in a pillow because the walls were so thin.  His shoulders shook with the force of his muffled sobs.  He would die out here, he supposed, done in by some ex-KGB goon with a car battery, his face beaten past recognition.  But that was alright, wasn’t it?  He had long since accepted that his end was likely violent.  And he had saved John, and that made any cost he paid fleetingly small.  The tears, the gnashing of teeth, they weren’t for his inevitable fate.  Rather, they were for the crippling certainty that he would never see John Watson again.

Cut.  He sat across from Irene at a cafe in Crimea.  His dyed blonde hair looked anemic in the watery sunlight.  

“You have to tell him, Sherlock,” she said, deadly earnest.  “He must know that you’re alive.”

“He can’t,” Sherlock snorted.  “He’s terrible at secrets.  Couldn’t even hide the Christmas presents.”

“He’s good at your secrets, Sherlock.  He’ll take all your secrets to the bloody grave.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he mumbled into his coffee cup.

“Sherlock, look at me,” she reached across the small table and snatched off his sunglasses, pinning him with her blue gaze.  “You have to tell him so he’ll know to wait for you.”

“But we aren’t together,” he said flatly, as he had said it so many times to himself.

“Yes, I _know_ ,” she said, disgusted, “but he’ll wait for the chance, Sherlock.  He’ll wait for the rest of his natural born life if you tell him to.”  Then, quietly, she added, “I would.”

But Sherlock couldn’t tell him.  He couldn’t.

Cut.  He sat heavily on the curb, nose dribbling blood, feeling physically sick as John’s cab sped away.  She had been right, all along.  He should have told him to wait.  He should have told him that he--

Cut.  They were drunk.  So drunk.  But they were both laughing, red in the face, name cards plastered to their sweaty foreheads.  Their chairs were pulled together, their knees and feet bumping.  The tag on Sherlock’s forehead read “John Wayne Gacy.”  

“Come on,” John wheezed, “I promise you know this one.”

“It isn’t me again, is it?”  Sherlock wiped his streaming eyes, “I am a man with an impeccable sense of style.”

“Oh, no, I never said ‘impeccable,’ Sherlock.  I said ‘unique.’”

“Oh, well, couldn’t be me then, could it?  Let’s see,” he drummed his fingers on his chin. “Alight, alright.  I’ve got it.” He placed a heavy hand on John’s shoulder and asked seriously, “Am I a homosexual?”

“Uhm--”John held his gaze for a moment, then doubled over again, laughing so hard he couldn’t draw breath, “Oh, god, honestly--I have no idea.”

“You don’t know?  What do you mean you don’t know?  How am I supposed to guess without all the relevant data.”

“Guess!  Guess!  You said ‘guess!’” John was howling with glee.

“Well,” Sherlock said peevishly, “it will be a guess if you can’t even tell me whether or not I’m a homosexual.”  He reached up and pulled the card from his forehead before John could stop him.  “Uh!” he said, rolling his eyes.  He _did_ know that one.

“Well,” John giggled, “are you?” He placed a hand just above Sherlock’s knee.  It was hot, even through the cloth of his trousers.

“Am I what?” Sherlock squinted woozily at John’s fingers, distracted.

“A homosexual?”  John was still giggling, but there was a shift in the quality, a new, titillated anxiousness.  The hand on his leg tightened, emphasizing its presence.  John’s head flopped to the side, a mischievous grin lighting his face.  John was incandescent, and Sherlock could feel an answering smile sweep inexorably across his own face.

“Yes,” he said, grinning, gleefully unsure now which sociopath they might be discussing.

“Well, then,” John said slyly, “as it’s my last night as a free man--” He closed the narrow gap between their faces, thrusting a clumsy hand into Sherlock’s sweaty curls.  It was sloppy and wet, their tongues lolling together, their teeth clacking.  Sherlock felt a delicious rush of heat to his groin; he moaned delightedly, and pulled John in closer with the hand now on the back of John’s neck.

It was only a minute until they pulled apart, and it felt to Sherlock like both an instant and an eternity.  John’s hand was still his hair, holding their foreheads together as they laughed, madly, breathlessly, at their transgression.

“Sorry, mate,” John said, “I had to.  Just once.  The curiosity--I couldn’t help it.”

“You can sell it to a tabloid: ‘I Kissed Sherlock Holmes on Stag Night.’  Consider the proceeds as a wedding present.”  

John extricated his hand from Sherlock’s hair and fell back in his chair, wheezing. “I’d get even more for ‘I _Shagged_ Sherlock Holmes on Stag Night,’” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, setting off a fresh peal of laughter.

“To the British Free Press!” Sherlock declared, hoisting aloft the next bottle of warm champagne.  He popped the cork and a shower of sticky bubbles poured over his fingers.  “Your turn, John!” he said, pointing to the crumpled tag still clinging valiantly to John’s forehead.

Cut.  Sherlock’s naked back, curved under the hot stream of the shower.  He bit back a moan and braced himself against on the tile.  It was cold under his palm, a sharp contrast to the heat of his erect cock.  He was painfully hard, and he stroked himself feverishly.  He had had the dream again, the one where John had kissed him.  It was so vivid--he could taste the champagne sweetness of John’s mouth and the slickness of John’s teeth under his tongue.  He could feel the paper note caught between their foreheads, the tangle of John’s hand in his curls, John’s fingers digging into his thigh--he came with a jolt, semen spilling over his fingers, knees almost dropping out from under him.  

He watched the mess wash down the drain.  And, secretly, in the far back of his mind, he knew it hadn’t been a dream at all.

Cut.  Static.

Cut.  A new, bonus scene: Sherlock, standing in the doorway.  John, sitting in his chair, a newly minted widower.  “John, I--” _Don’t!_ screamed the single sane little voice left in his head.  It sounded like Molly.   _It’s not the time, Sherlock!_ He swallowed the _I love you_ instead.  It tasted bitter, like tea left too long to seep.  


***************************

The cabbie cleared his throat, “We’re here, sir.  Sign on the door says they don’t open till 9:30, but I saw the shopgirl through the window.  You might knock on the glass. Bet she’ll let you in.”

“Will you wait?  I’ll either need another florist or a car to the cemetery.”

“Of course, sir,” he nodded over the seat.

In the rain, Sherlock dashed from the cab to the shop awning.  He rapped the glass with his knuckles, and plastered on what he hoped was a pitiful, pleading expression.  Though, in truth, he felt both rather pitiful and ready to plead.

“Hello?  Yes, I’m so sorry to bother you,” he called through the door, “I know it’s a Sunday, and you’re not open yet, but--” he managed a verge-of-tears sniffle and an eye-water, “--but my best friend’s wife has just died. And the funeral’s at eleven and--” He could see the shopgirl now.  She was young, not the shop’s owner, just the hired help.  As she came to the door, her face was torn between uncertainty and sympathy, but when she saw his posh clothes and the cab waiting at the curb, she unlocked the door.

“Thank you,” he practically sobbed, “Thank you so much.  It means the world.”  He threw his arms out as if to hug her, so great was his feigned gratitude.

“Not at all, sir,” she said, embarrassed but pleased, dodging his embrace by taking his elbow to steer him towards the flowers, “With the funeral this morning, sir, you’ll have to pick from what we have in the shop.”

He looked round at the tall plastic vases of flowers, the potted orchids, the refrigerator filled with roses.  

“Do you deliver?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“By ten fifteen?  To Chiswick New Cemetery?”

“That’s awfully soon. I think that can be managed but--”

“Wonderful,” he said abruptly, cutting her off.  “I’ll have it all, all the flowers.”  The girl’s mouth fell open.  “Well,” he relented, “as much as you can fit in the delivery van.  Here,” he dug out his wallet, handing her a sleek black credit card emblazoned with _Mycroft S. Holmes_ in raised gold letters. “You’ll find there’s no limit.”

“But, I--it’ll take me ages to ring it all up.”

“Call your boss.  Tell them what I want, ask them what they think is a fair price.  I’ll leave you the card, and you can send the bill and the card with the delivery driver.”

“But--”

Pulling a paper and pen from his pocket, he scrawled his cell number, “Call me if you have any trouble.”

“But--”

He was already out the door, dashing through the rain to the waiting cab.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to write this new chapter, dear readers! I haven't abandoned you, but I keep getting lured by the siren song of podfic creation!


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